


what is love, 'tis not hereafter

by perfectlight



Series: every wise man's son doth know [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Parent!lock, in all honesty John and Irene are only mentioned, present tense is golden tense, the corduroy bear is more prominent of a character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlight/pseuds/perfectlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He yawns again, much deeper this time, but Sherlock is frozen, because he hadn’t thought Hamish had remembered his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what is love, 'tis not hereafter

“Papa?”

 

Sherlock Holmes looks up from the microscope lens that had given him a detailed view of a still-quivering fragment of a human heart. He had been attempting to calculate the its rate of motion to determine approximately where in the heart the segment had originated, all in the name of fighting boredom, really.

 

“Have you any idea what time it is? No?” Sherlock says, sweeping his eyes over the small figure of his son – disheveled hair, rumpled pyjamas, and still clutching the arm of that ridiculous stuffed corduroy bear from John – seeking comfort from the nearest available sources, clearly he’d just had another nightmare. "It's eleven past one, Hamish. You ought to be sleeping."

 

“You’re up,” protests Hamish, rubbing his eyes with his pyjama sleeve.

 

“Doesn't John tell you I should be listened to, not exemplified?”

 

Hamish wrinkles up his face, remembering. "Think it was  _listen to Papa when Papa's not being an idiot_ ,” and Sherlock hears himself chuckling. His chair legs scrape the kitchen floor as he pushes away from the table, making space for his son to clamber onto Sherlock's lap. Muscle memory dictates their movements – Hamish toys with the sash of Sherlock's dressing gown,  Sherlock rests a hand on the boy's dark head.  


“What was it about this time?” Sherlock asks, quietly, and Hamish sighs, his fist tightening ever-so-slightly around the stuffed arm of the corduroy bear (which didn't even resemble an authentic bear cub, _honestly_ ).

 

“There was a…a gunshot,” the little boy gingerly recollects, and Sherlock wrinkles up his forehead – that element is probably his fault, a recent case had ended in a trigger-happy jewel thief sending a bullet straight through the window of 221b before Sherlock could apprehend him.

 

Hamish continues. “And then a bit I don’t member well, but I think there was a pumpkin man…”

 

Sherlock makes a point to remember to inform John that books with more potentially frightening scenes should be kept somewhere that Hamish could not find them (which would apparently not include the kitchen cupboards and Sherlock _knew_ he had seen trainer streaks on the countertops); Holmes or not, Hamish was only six.

 

“And then – what’m I asposed to call it when I'm dreaming and I know I'm dreaming?”

 

“Try and remember,” Sherlock prods.

 

Again Hamish wrinkles up his face, sleepy systems trying to reboot. “Was it…lupine?”

 

“No, Hamish, those are werewolves. A dream in which the dreamer is self-aware is known as a lucid dream.” On another circuit of his mental computer, Sherlock processes the idea of reading some theories of Sigmund Freud to Hamish, possibly omitting the Oedipus complex bits.

 

“Lucid,” Hamish corrects himself. A yawn shudders through his body, but he steadies himself and snuggles deeper into Sherlock’s lap. “I think that, I think I dreamed it before. I knew I was dreaming, and I was in a tiny flat and out the window there was buildings, and there was a lady. She was pretty, Papa. A flop of dark hair slips over his forehead as he leans against Sherlock’s chest. “I tried to say hullo but I don’t think she could hear me.”

 

He yawns again, much deeper this time, but Sherlock is frozen, because he hadn’t thought Hamish had remembered his mother. It is possible that Hamish doesn’t know what he has been dreaming of, what he has been remembering, very likely, in fact, Hamish was only three when Irene left him...

 

But Sherlock’s speculations are for naught, because the next thing he knows, Hamish has finished yawning and turns his sleepy blinking eyes up to his father as he says, “I knew her, Papa. In the dream and for real. Was it – you know? Was it her?"

 

Sherlock tightens his arms around his son, as if to hide him away from traitorous memories of the woman who abandoned him, and says in a quiet baritone, “It doesn’t matter. You’re no longer related to her, I’ve told you before.”

 

“I know, but…it was her, wasn’t it?” Cautious, Hamish presses on. “She was holding me, so I could see out the window. I didn't even get scared of looking from high up. But Mummy, she left me with you when I was real little, didn’t she?”

 

“Really little,” Sherlock corrects automatically. “I told you, it does not matter.”

 

“But I wanna know!”

 

“Don’t whine, Hamish, it’s unbecoming.”

 

Hamish’s eyes flick down to his woolen stockings that Mrs Hudson knitted. “ _You_ whine,” he mutters. “When Daddy tells you don't call people stupid or bully Anderson and when I beat you in Cluedo.”

 

Sherlock grumbles.

 

“But it is her, isn’t it, Papa? Did it happen for real, 'fore I came here to you and Daddy?"

 

Sherlock arches backwards to look Hamish in the eyes, blue on blue. “This is not a riddle or a puzzle, Hamish, don’t attempt to prove your cleverness through it. It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

 

But the persistent gleam – and ever-so-subtle beginning sheen of tears (and Hamish is no crier) – in Hamish’s eyes leaves Sherlock’s resolve crumbling. And then Hamish whispers, “Why did she leave me?”

 

A thousand cutting replies shoot through Sherlock’s mind: _it doesn’t matter either way; I don’t know if she wanted you; she is dishonorable and promiscuous and dishonest; she doesn’t deserve you and I hate every aspect of her being, except I cannot, because I would not have you without her._ Then his eyes stray to the corduroy bear and he thinks of John. Ridiculous, stupid, wonderful conundrum of a man. John _understands_  people in a way Sherlock never has – not as a collection of motivations and memories and actions, but as the illogical creatures of emotion they so often are. It was John who knew, without even having to observe, that the   
  
emotions, sentiment, who understands why tiny, innocent human beings might need a stuffed representation of the family Ursidae to comfort them when they had persistent nightmares, who Hamish calls _Daddy_. Keeping the doctor’s face firmly in his mind, Sherlock tries to be impartial.

 

“There were…people after her. People who wanted to kill her.”

 

“Killers?”

 

“Obviously, Hamish, that–” Sherlock catches himself and begins again. “Yes. Killers. She knew you would never be safe with her…and she knew that I could care for you alongside John. It was only logical to deliver you to me.” No. That couldn’t be right. It brings up the concept of Hamish as a parcel sent through the mail, and his son is nothing like that. Intuitively Sherlock brushes the tousled hair from his son's forehead. “And...I am glad she did.”

 

It is more than he ever intended to tell Hamish, and there is still more lurking on the edges of his words, addendums to be saved for later years, perhaps for never. If Hamish was happy to think his mother had cared for him and remained out in the world, there was no need to remind him of what precisely had happened. 

 

Hamish smiles, curling further into Sherlock’s lap. “Me too. She was pretty, but I’d rather be with you and Daddy.”

 

Sherlock feels his heart make a funny stuttering that he suspects his nothing to do with arrhythmia.

 

Hamish yawns a third time, so deeply that his jaw creaks back and his eyes scrunch up. Recognizing the signs, and shifting so that Hamish’s head is resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, the detective rises from the microscope and steps carefully into the hall towards Hamish’s room. Approaching the small bed with its rumpled blankets, he lays Hamish down, and for a moment thinks the little boy is asleep when his head lolls over the pillow. Then, drowsily, half conscious, Hamish’s eyes crack open and he murmurs a final question: “Did Mummy love me?”

 

And Sherlock sighs, knowing he must be honest, for Hamish’s sake.

 

“Yes,” he says finally. “I…I believe she did. She loved you enough to bring you here.”

 

A faint smile creases Hamish’s lips, and then he is asleep, lashes fluttering downwards and breaths even.

 

Slowly Sherlock rises from the bed, turning to go back to the microscope and by now inanimate fragment of a heart. Then Sherlock capitulates, steps back to Hamish, bends downwards, kisses his forehead again and tells him the absolute truth.

 

“I love you. Dream of that for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> In essence, this is a short companion to [_love will not break your heart but dismiss your fears_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/753481).


End file.
